I’d live in an orange if I could. The citrusy aroma would act as a permanent air freshener and if I really felt the need, I could use bits of the peels as incense to disguise the scent of agony that pours out of my skin like buckets of water. I’d sit on the peeled fruit like a couch, soaking up its juices. I’d like that. I wouldn't like how the orange couch would slowly begin to rot under the weight of my turmoil. I’d never admit that, that was the cause though. I can't tell myself the truth even if a gun was being held to my head. I’d say something like “Oh yeah the couch is rotting because my house isn't cool enough.” Which In a way, is slightly true. My orange home would  never be cold enough, no matter how much I messed around with its thermostat built into the pale stringy interior. If I lived in an orange, I’d try to flop down on my belly, hands behind my back and wriggle about the ground like a worm. I think it stems from jealousy of the worm. The slimy thing gets to move around an apple like it's meant to be there. Filled with countless holes, the apple would truly belong to the worm. It comes and goes as it pleases and never feels out of place even as it gets plucked from the apple's core; it just crawls to another.  If I lived in an orange, I’d be grateful when the scent from the walls dim, the peel incense dies out. I’d have a reason to leave the house and find another, like the worm.